


Keep Smiling

by tonytonesphoneroo5000



Series: This Is Not A Harley Quinn Story [5]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Under the Red Hood
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-25 07:34:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22092352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tonytonesphoneroo5000/pseuds/tonytonesphoneroo5000
Summary: SURPRISE BITCH I BET YOU THOUGHT YOU'D SEEN THE LAST OF MEthis is the actual last, probably. quinn's kinda grown as i have; she went from being this miserable shell of a teenage girl who never really believed she could deserve something good and didn't think she would live very long to a woman in her 20s with a purpose and hope, who's still living with her mental illness but the emphasis now is on living with it :') tbfh i write these completely for myself now but i hope any readers like them. this story was actually originally started in....2012? i think? and continued on as I graduated high school and then college so like it means a lot to me. here's to a new decade and hopefully further recovery on all fronts lol
Relationships: Jason Todd/Original Female Character(s)
Series: This Is Not A Harley Quinn Story [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/174101
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	Keep Smiling

**Author's Note:**

> SURPRISE BITCH I BET YOU THOUGHT YOU'D SEEN THE LAST OF ME  
> this is the actual last, probably. quinn's kinda grown as i have; she went from being this miserable shell of a teenage girl who never really believed she could deserve something good and didn't think she would live very long to a woman in her 20s with a purpose and hope, who's still living with her mental illness but the emphasis now is on living with it :') tbfh i write these completely for myself now but i hope any readers like them. this story was actually originally started in....2012? i think? and continued on as I graduated high school and then college so like it means a lot to me. here's to a new decade and hopefully further recovery on all fronts lol

Joker tangles his fingers in my hair, tugging my head back. When I was with him, he wasn’t all that much taller than me. In memory, he’s huge. That hideous purple suit hangs loose on him; it always smelled like smoke. 

Sometimes he would sit and stare at me, a bug under a microscope. His eyes are the same poisonous, bright green as mine and Hood’s. “I took all the good parts out of you, Quinnie.” He tilts his head. “Aren’t you pretty, now?” 

I wake up having scratched the skin around my prosthetic arm raw. “Never considered my arm to be an especially good part,” I mutter to myself. “You bitch.” 

The gorge is rising in my throat anyway. I can pretend to be brave, when it’s bright out. He haunts my nights more often than not, and unfortunately I’m usually awake at night. I know he couldn’t blend into the shadows, not with that white skin, but I’m still looking into them anyway. 

I hear Hood sit up on the couch with a grunt, bump my shoulder into the doorframe in my haste to get into the bathroom. The toilet’s cool against my arms as I hold it, gag. The sushi we had for dinner never comes up, though. 

“Quinn?” 

I look up at Hood, think of Joker, gag again. “I’ll be fine.” I settle with my back against the tub, hugging my knees. I’m not a small person, but I’ve been surrounded by people who are bigger in personality for most of my life. Hood is one of them. It’s still comforting when he sits next to me.

I wonder when we started being close enough to comfort each other every time. His sharp edges are softened by sleep; he’s so handsome, it's a little stupid. I wonder if all of his family are like that, under the masks. Batman does have a very square chin. 

“Thanks, Hood,” I say after a moment. 

“You don’t have to call me Hood. My name is Jason.” 

“Jason,” I say, trying it out, thinking of that girl on the phone a while ago calling him Jay. “Okay.” Maybe it’s time I settled into this life, stopped fearing it’ll be ripped away. Joker is dead.

* * *

I watch Jason settle himself onto the couch as he does every night, wincing. He’s too big for it, curling his knees to his chest, then shifting til one long leg dangles off the side, toes flexing.

I stand in the doorway of the room I’ve been calling mine since I came here, the only bedroom in the place, and glance back at my bed. It’s a king, marshmallow soft, the quilt some level of Egyptian cotton that only rich people can afford. It’s not a bed made for me; I’m dwarfed in it, somehow always ending up in the middle like a lonely island. It’s made for Jason, who’s been cramming himself on that tiny couch in the months since we met. It can’t be good for his spine. 

I move from foot to foot, enough that he peeks his head over the back of the couch. The television behind him sends shifting lights across his face, one moment accentuating a high cheekbone, the next showing the glint of the green that now rests in both our eyes. “What’s up?” he asks, sleep soft.

“You can’t be comfortable on there.” 

“I’m fine,” he says, rolling his eyes. We’ve had this argument a couple times. I always offer to take the couch instead, even though I hate sleeping on couches. When I was with Joker, all I ever slept on was couches. The feel of cushions brings back memories I’d kill to forget. Jason, in his turn, insists that he’s fine, even as he gets up every morning groaning. Tonight, I try a different offer. I’ve gotten better at arguing, no longer so scared of a sudden fist. Jason won’t hurt me. We’re family at this point.

I lean against the door frame, clicking the fingers of my fake hand against it. “We could share.”

“You don’t like to be touched.” 

I think of long, white fingers on my hips, but scoff. “I don’t mind when it’s you.” Jason’s nothing like the Joker, dark where Joker was bone pale, solid where Joker was tall and lanky. Kind where Joker was cruel. “And the bed’s big enough for both of us.” We can be lonely islands together, I think to myself, almost amused. “I’m 28. I’m old enough to share a bed with a friend.” There’s a silence. I sigh. “Jay. You can’t fight if you’re hurting.” It’s the first time I’ve ever used his real name. The sound of it is strange on my tongue. 

After a moment, Jason gets to his feet, rolling his shoulders. “Fine.” 

He brushes past me on the way through to my room. Our room, now, I guess. With him sprawled out on the bed, it looks smaller. He does look more comfortable though, in his cat pajama pants, so I smile. He smiles back; it’s been a long time since he flinched at the sight of me. 

I have to crawl over him to get into bed; he won’t like being trapped, I know that instinctively. It’s best for me to take the side closest to the wall. I throw my leg over, my dark skin against his, and topple onto the other side with a bounce that makes him smile. 

Once we’re both settled in, under the sheets, me entirely covered and Jason with his arms and chest out, it’s not nearly so awkward as I worried it would be when I asked. Jason’s already nodding off, his ridiculously long eyelashes shadowing his cheeks.

“Better?” I ask, rolling to my side. The bed is big enough that I can only just feel his body heat. Jason always complains about being cold, but he runs hot. 

“S’better,” he admits, also moving to face me. “Smells like you.” 

“Is that good?” I ask, suddenly worried. 

Sure, I shower, but I’ve never been one for perfume, and I only change my sheets like…once a month. But Jason nods. “Mhm. You smell like the gel for your arm, and me. Safe.” I grin at him, but he’s already dropping off, mouth softening. I follow him down minutes later.

* * *

That night is fine, and the night after, and the night after. In a week, Jason has stopped asking to join me, and it’s become an accepted thing. The couch lies empty, looking kinda forlorn. Jason no longer winces and complains, rubbing his neck, when he wakes up. But we both have trauma. 

When I inevitably have a nightmare and thrash, crying out, I slap him right in the chest with my fake arm, the heavy prosthetic making him choke. He wakes, pinning me on my back for a moment before letting go when I scream, images of wide, red mouths still in my head. I can almost see Joker behind him, running his hands over Jason’s broad shoulders, tugging the corners of Jason’s mouth into a demented smile. 

In the dark, Jason’s eyes glow green, so subtle I wouldn’t notice if he wasn’t this close. I imagine he sees the same reflected in mine. “Quinn, hey, you’re with me. You’re okay,” he soothes, resting his hand on my hair, smoothing the curls back. I take in the feeling, the sound of his breathing, the smell of him, touch my tongue to the back of my teeth to taste the sour breath until I’m grounded. 

“Right. I know,” I say, dropping back down into the pillows. “Joker is dead.” I watched Jason make a crater in his skull myself. But my heart still rabbits in my chest, loud enough that Jason must be able to hear it as my throat stings. I’m crying, getting up to clamber over Jason and head to the bathroom, where bright lights and porcelain always soothe me.

“Hey, wait, Quinn…” he says, getting up to follow me. We’ve always had an unspoken rule; when one of us cries, the other ignores it and leaves them alone. With my mother, with Joker, I learned crying was weakness and it never helped alleviate punishment. Something of them is still with me. It’s hard to forget lessons earned in scars.

I flinch a little when Jason trails in behind me, sitting on the closed lid of the toilet as I curl up in the bathtub. It feels ridiculous. Jason’s hair is going in every direction, his face even scrunchier than usual with exhaustion. His abs are still perfect, though, I note with jealousy. The Lazarus Pit that Jason used when I died like an _idiot_ reversed my age back to eighteen, so I have some chub around my middle that I’m blaming on returned baby fat. 

“Go back to bed,” I sniff, wiping my eyes. “You’re not even good at dealing with emotions.” 

A low blow, but he just shrugs, offering me a sheet of toilet paper to blow my nose into. “You’re family now. I should stop ignoring that.” I give him a smile that must be weak, watery, but he returns it.  
It takes about ten minutes for me to relax, and Jason _does_ help. Just knowing he’s here, solid and protecting, helps. He offers a hand to help me from the bathtub, and we go back to bed together. I fall asleep first, but not before offering a quiet thanks. It feels like something has changed, softened. I’m too tired to focus on it. For now, I sleep.

* * *

Almost like my nightmare has triggered his own, Jason has bad dreams the next night. Nothing like my thrashing, screaming affairs; I wake up with a start to the sound of him whimpering. He’s on his side, turned away from me, in a tiny ball. I wonder how much smaller he was when Joker killed him. Surely not as small as the new Robin. My chest aches with sympathy. 

“No,” he’s saying, choked off by little sobs. “No, please, I want you to stop, stop hurting me, Batman will…”

I think of the many, many people I saw Joker torture and ruin. Some of them begged for Batman. Some of them begged for mercy, or death. Joker could draw a death out for hours, longer if he was angry about it. I can only imagine what he would do to the child of his nemesis. Jason would have suffered. He would’ve cried out for help and never received it. He would’ve cried for Batman, who never came.  
I don’t try to touch him. He might hurt me before he wakes up fully and realizes who I am. “Jason!” I say, sharply. “Wake up!” He does, all at once, going onto his back to stare at the ceiling and take deep, careful breaths. I don’t comment that his face is wet with tears.  
“A nightmare,” he says. “When the Joker took me, he started…with a razor…”

“You don’t need to tell me. I saw it enough.”

Saw big men reduced to crawling on shattered legs, or forced to roll in broken glass, or with their fingernails peeled back to reveal raw, red skin. I heard enough screams, with Joker and elsewhere, to be able to pick out what each one meant. Wheedling meant the torture hadn’t started yet. High and surprised meant it was only just beginning, with maybe a finger broken, or a cheek slashed. Raw, low, ashamed meant Joker was getting what he wanted, like he always did. And then came the animal noises, the sounds people make when reduced to their basic selves, out of their minds with pain. Groans, growls, wet heaving and always the sound of Joker laughing over it all until his victims were no longer useful. I saw men leave his bases that looked like ground meat. I don’t want to imagine him doing that to Jason, especially Jason as a teenager, in Robin’s cheerful costume.

Instead, I splay my fingers over Jason’s broad shoulder. He doesn’t shake me off, but he does sit up until my hand slides away. I watch as he runs his fingers through his hair, over the white streak, and gets to his feet. “I need to take a walk.”

“Do you want me to come?” 

“Yes.” I’m a little relieved that he’s not distancing himself from me, ashamed. I follow him, tossing on a sweatshirt that must be his, because it has psychedelic cats all over it, and follow him downstairs, onto the street. We’re mostly nocturnal, to fit Jason’s crime fighting schedule, so the sun is only just rising and the streets are as quiet as they can be. Jason seems satisfied strolling along with me, humming under his breath. And I’m happy, too.

* * *

“I’ll join you in a bit,” I say, waving Jason off to bed, crossing my legs. I’ve been following an especially shitty telenova for the past couple weeks. My Spanish is still rudimentary, but I use closed captions. And I like watching beautiful people living terrible, dramatic lives.

Jason, in the doorway to our room, scratches at the back of his head. He already looks soft and sleepy, face scrunching. “Leave the door open,” he makes me promise. 

“I always do.” Satisfied, he pads off to bed, and I watch Maria accuse George of impregnating her evil, thought-to-be-deceased twin. 

When I finally decide to go to bed, after I raid the fridge for leftover nachos and feast to my heart’s content, I must be so tired that my control slips. Because I leave the TV on when I head off to bed, and the light falls over Jason, who’s sprawled on his back, mostly out of the covers, his chest rising and falling in little breaths. His scars shine silver, and I trace my eyes over the autopsy Y stretching from both shoulders and down to his waist.

He’s not so brutal like this. No one could ever say that Jason has a kind face, but I can see how he’s still growing like this, how young he is. And his mouth parts in his sleep; he rolls over, reaching to the other side of the bed, where I usually lie, and he murmurs, “Quinn,” as he makes a fist. And he’s breathtakingly beautiful. And I realize I’m in love with him. 

This is, of course, a crisis. I’ve never been in love with anyone in my life, besides Joker. And with Joker, it was mostly obsession and insanity and his stupid fucking grin, the little tidbits of kindness he would throw me when I began to stray. 

Jason is nothing like that. Jason is protection, and good, and the small wrinkles that appear at the corners of his eyes when he smiles, and broad shoulders, and the smell of gunpowder that never leaves him. Jason is safety, and quite frankly fantastic thighs, and how I stopped flinching away from him months ago, but he’s still careful not to move too fast around me. 

I lay there next to Jason in the dark, staring up at the dark ceiling. I had thought that Joker carved any sort of desire out of me. I had thought I was _safe_. Now I listen to Jason’s breathing in the dark, and resist the urge to put my hand on his chest, to feel his pulse. I’ve never seen Jason so much as give anyone a second glance. He’s never talked about girls, or boys for that matter, or mentioned anyone. He sees me as his best friend. He’ll probably refuse me. 

I’ve dealt with worse. My first and only relationship was with the _Joker_. So. _I’ve dealt with worse_. I shake Jason awake. “Jason. Wake up.” He does, jumping only a little. We’ve woken each other up from nightmares often enough that he just turns his head to look at me. I feel like an idiot. He’s gorgeous, and smart, and mysteriously rich. And he usually smells pretty good. And he makes pancakes. And I spent five years in a mental asylum and dated a homicidal maniac. Even the kindest person would be unable to call me beautiful. Striking, maybe, but it wouldn’t be meant as a compliment. 

I let Jason blink for a moment before he sits up, the blankets pooling at his waist. His abs don’t even turn into rolls. I don’t remember wanting Joker like this. “Was I dreaming?” he asks, pushing the white streak of hair away from his face. 

“No,” I say, also sitting up. Might as well get ready to run if this goes south. “I wanted to tell you something.” I can see the exhaustion in his face, but he waits without comment. “I love you.” 

The last person I said that to was Joker; I had screamed it at him during my trial, when they had dragged me away to Arkham. He never, once, said the same thing. I was his, his toy, his plaything, a pet that he could beat on a whim. He would whisper that I was his while he cut lines down my calves. I don’t think he was capable of love. I’m not sure I ever truly loved him. I told Batman that I would love Joker forever and ever. I didn’t. I was obsessed with him, and the obsession probably remains, in a different way. He’s left his mark on me in more ways than one. But he never told me he loved me. 

“I love you, too.”

“Oh, so-” I move to touch him, but he holds up a hand. 

“I love you, but I’m not in love with you.”

“You…don’t like girls?”

“I don’t like _you_. You scarred, ugly, pathetic little thing, I wouldn’t touch you to save my life,” and he’s become the Joker, grinning at me, blood under his fingernails and smoke in my nose as he presses a gentle kiss to my neck before tearing my throat out. “I’ll have you, Quinnie, I’ve _had_ you, and, ha!, I’ll have you again,” as his white hands spread my thighs and I’m _screaming-_

* * *

“Quinn.” I thrash awake to the familiar sight of Jason’s face. I close my eyes against it; all these years, and I’ll still close my eyes to keep monsters away. Not that Jason’s a monster. I am, for thinking I could have anything so good as him. I’ve made strides, but in many ways I’m still the lonely little girl who got caught up in Joker’s wake. I let Jason wrap his fingers around my bicep, grounding me, casually possessive in a way I don’t think he notices. “Nightmare?” 

“Something like that,” I say, smiling weakly. I know, in my head, that Joker is dead. That I could fight him off if I had to, my prosthetic enhancing my strength. I even know that for all his horrors, Joker wasn’t a rapist. The other part of the dream will linger, though, I already know it as Jason examines my face. 

The problem is, the dream only started once I lay next to Jason; I had fallen asleep while thinking of what to say to him. Because I look into Jason’s face, and I’m still in love with him. I lick my lips, which must be an unpleasant sight. “I need…to use the bathroom,” I say, rolling out from under his touch. He doesn’t follow me this time.

In the bathroom, I stand at the sink, splash water over my face before examining myself in the mirror. Brown eyes, brown skin, black hair. Knotted scars at my throat that almost killed me. The ropy scars at the sides of my mouth, twisting it into a permanent grin. 

When they were fresh, the doctor did his best, but he may as well have left them alone. Our health insurance was bad; I received far from the best care. I was lucky to be in Gotham. Bruce Wayne pumps money into the hospitals, so at least they’re adequate.

I remember coming back months later to have a doctor examine my face. He’d touched the scars, which always felt strange, I hated the feeling of rubber fingers against them. He’d frowned. I was alone in the hospital room. My mother didn’t bother taking me herself, so I’d walked there. There wasn’t any media attention on us, because gruesome shit like that happens every day in Gotham.

So the doctor had stretched my cheeks out, had me do wellness tests, was clearly more interested in my new, messy smile than the pain he was causing or the tears in my eyes. I’m sure he had more, well-paying patients to see. “It’ll heal,” he’d said finally. “But it’ll scar.” And he’d left me there to cry and then go home on my own, with a scarf pulled over my mouth.

The men who cut my face open were thorough. They cut cleanly from the sides of my mouth and only stopped when they hit the real meat of my cheeks. I remember raw, red noises, the horror on my father’s face before they cut his throat, too. My mother came home once they were gone, I guess. 

She probably never paid off that gambling debt that was the reason for it all. I hope those men were satisfied with what they did. For a while after that, I had nightmares about them coming back, but then I met Joker, and learned to fear someone far, far worse.

I was left with my face gaping open, flaps of hanging skin, and if we didn’t live so close to the hospital I probably would have died. Wanted to, at the time. As I slogged through months of healing, picking at the scabs around my throat, waiting for the flesh of my face to heal enough that I could leave the apartment without resembling a Halloween decoration. 

I touch at the scars, taking a long look at myself for what must be the first time in years. I wasn’t fond of looking at myself even before the scars, and then Joker didn’t keep mirrors around. I guess he didn’t like looking at himself, either. 

In Arkham, no glass allowed, of course, and in Haiti I was too busy. Jason’s place is the first real peace I’ve had in years. In the mirror, I see someone who I think was pretty, once. Or, I would’ve become pretty. Now I’m a ghoul. I don’t concern myself with that, though. What’s the point of being jealous of something that will never change? 

I sometimes feel marked all over by Joker-the tattoos, the amputated hand, the little scars. But my face is mine. The thing that drew him to me first is mine. I belong to _myself_. Not Joker. Not even Jason. I manage a small, real smile in the mirror, and to be honest? I don’t look half bad. Maybe I’m not a ghoul after all.

* * *

And for a couple days I’m awkward around Jason until I realize that either I confess to him, which is mostly unthinkable, or I move out, which is definitely unthinkable, or I just get used to it. Which is the option I choose, because I’ve faced worse than unrequited love in my life.

We have dinner together every night and go for walks in Gotham’s parks with a scarf pulled over my face and argue playfully about the bad television we’re both fond of. I take up knitting and really put in work towards learning Spanish, and I almost forget about being in love with Jason until he’ll remember to bring home my favorite meal, or I startle a laugh from him, or I’ll wake up with his hand touching my waist. It’s fine, I tell myself. I’ll get over it.

* * *

“Guess even the Joker likes to get his dick wet,” one of the cops who picked me up the second time had said, bruising my arm as he yanked me to my feet. Lots of comments like that, from people who couldn’t believe the Joker could have a woman unless she was forced, even though he never did. I think of what I did, what I _let him do_. Press my hands to the sides of my head and squeeze so the images of his white body over mine can’t force themselves in. 

Sometimes the thoughts come like that, on good days when I’m not ready for them. I’m at the clinic and have to run to the bathroom, lock myself in there because I’d rather no one sees me; I put myself in my situation, it’s my fault. I deserved it. These women shouldn’t have to listen to me complain.

* * *

Jason’s waiting for me at the end of my shift, on a bench down the street with a big puffy black jacket on and a wonky red hat I made for him, wisps of his hair poking from under it. He’s thumbing through a copy of _Frankenstein_ , which I think is funny as we’re members of the undead ourselves, monstrous and inhuman. Kind of.

I can feel myself brighten when I see him and tug my scarf further over my face to hide my smile as I head over to him, lean down to rest my elbows on his broad shoulders. “Hey! I thought you were busy today.”

“I finished it early,” he says, dog-earring the page which he knows drives me crazy and I can tell by the crinkles around his eyes that he’s doing it on purpose, so I lightly cuff the back of his head. There’s blood under his fingernails that I’m not going to mention. 

“You’re obnoxious, but I’m glad you came.” 

“Thought I’d pick my best girl up from work.” This is enough to fluster me as he gets to his feet, tucks the book away in a coat pocket. 

“I’m not. Um. I’m not your best girl,” I mutter, stupidly, never able to take the good things in life for myself.

“True.” I accept the hurt that causes until he continues with, “You’re my only girl,” as he laughs and produces some of the little Italian candies I’m so fond of that he gets from a pizza place near our apartment, cups my good hand to pour them inside. I beam up at him in a way I _know_ must be terrifying, my scars stretching grotesquely, but he just smiles back down at me. “Tell me about your day?” I suck one of the candies into my mouth as I start to talk, putting the prosthetic hand under my armpit so it won’t freeze in the cold air. 

Jason keeps pace with me, his bulk and the guns I know he has under his coat somewhere making me feel safe enough that I don’t hunch my shoulders. Something about this has happiness bubbling up from my throat, so unfamiliar a feeling that I’m almost scared of it, but not scared enough to stop.

* * *

Hood watches me take my coat off, put it up on the novelty coat hanger we got at a thrift store a couple months ago, a bright red thing with spiral arms. The apartment is a little dark as the afternoon eases into night.

I unwind the scarf from around my neck, breathing in fresh air and the smell of our apartment, stretching my arms out, before throwing myself on the couch. It sags under my weight but no longer complains quite so loudly since Jason started sleeping in my bed.

I look up at him, with his coat mostly off, his armor plating on underneath which explains why he looked so bulky. He’s grinning at me, fond like he cares about me and my chest _hurts_. I blurt out without thinking. “I love you.” It’s like the first time except I’m pinching myself so I know I’m awake, and I have the right amount of fingers which means I’m _definitely_ awake.

“I know.” He’s unhooking the plates of his armor, a complicated process I still haven’t managed to understand.

Obviously he knows I love him, but I don’t think he gets it entirely. He comes to sit next to me on the couch where I anxiously fold my legs under myself to be smaller.

“I mean, um, like in love?” I say, wishing my voice wasn’t so gravelly and unappealing, that I wasn’t so scarred. My hands twist in my lap, the prosthetic cool against the skin of my good hand. 

“I know.” He knows. He knows? I watch his face; Jason doesn’t lie to me. Not even when he took me in to use as bait against the Joker. He shifts forward on the couch, until our bare knees are touching, my skin prickling. Jason’s not stupid, and he’s better at understanding people than I am. I can only understand what they need, what they want. But right now, sitting in the dark, I have no idea what Jason wants. “Quinn, I’ve lived with you for two years now. You mention my abs like…once a week. We’ve been sleeping in the same bed for _months_. You know that everyone at your clinic thinks we’re married?” I look down at my crooked, ringless fingers and can’t hide my pleased smile. “You’re the strongest woman I know,” Jason continues. “Of course I’m in love with you.”

I think over our past couple months. About Jason coming home with tidbits of the Haitian food he knows I fell in love with. Of waking up with his face pressed to the curls of my hair. The conversations that we have on the roof until we’re both yawning. I probably know Jason better than anyone, even better than his own, weird Bat family.

“Oh.” So I’ve been stupid. As usual. Jason holds my fake hand in his, my pressure sensors registering his squeeze. There’s a moment when we’re looking at each other, our eyes glowing in the dark, and then he takes my chin in one hand and kisses me, precise in this of all things. I taste the cold air we were breathing in, and mint. He sucks my tongue into his mouth as I lean into him, putting my hand on his thigh. I’ve only kissed two other people in my life. A girl, who kinda looked like Catwoman, before I got my scars. And the Joker. I think of my soft mouth pressed to his brittle smile, and am so grateful to be here as Jason hauls me into his lap, kissing at the side of my mouth, along my scars and to my ear. I put my other hand on his chest, glad he has me on top where I’ve never been, new memories to make. “Just this, for now?” I ask, although we more than fit the definition of taking it slow considering we’ve been living together for two years.

“Yeah, Quinn, anything,” he says into my mouth, and I can’t help smiling, can’t help feeling safe. For now, just this will be enough.

**Author's Note:**

> also as quinn's mental health has healed, so have her scars; she's not nearly so badly scarred as she thinks anymore


End file.
